


i'm just looking for an angel with a broken wing

by alicechugstea



Series: Burning Bright [3]
Category: Beelzebub (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Heartwarming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicechugstea/pseuds/alicechugstea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although it doesn't destroy the world, there are still some things that come with being an angel that Furuichi and Oga are slowly working out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm just looking for an angel with a broken wing

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic that I can say is slightly less depressing than my last one, and much more heartwarming! Hopefully hahaaha. Please enjoy the fic, I'm quite proud of it.

Furuichi being an Angel doesn’t really cause any drastic changes to life as it is. It’s not super dramatic; it doesn’t result in an earth shaking, universe warping, war to end all wars. He doesn’t become an adversary. He’s still idiot, skirt chasing Furuichi, through and through.

Except, maybe, for a few things here and there. He’s got ridiculous strength now. Speed and reflexes and his punches and kicks and backflips and dodges are suddenly on par with Oga on a good day. The first time they had an impromptu wrestling match in Furuichi’s room about the latest issues of Jump, the bed became two pieces, all the windows were broken and there were scorch marks on the walls. But it was a good feeling, something invigorating and new and perfect, reflected in Furuichi’s shit eating grin even though they were both covered in ridiculously large bruises, lying in the wreckage. Both of them still have pretty bad trash talk though, and the new names they come up with for their attacks are even worse.

Whenever they sit down and chill for a few hours, it’s inevitable that animals will come flocking to Furuichi like he’s the Whisperer of Every Single Animal On This Damn Planet Jesus Christ Why. Barbecues are the best when Furuichi’s around, even though he violently protested his displeasure when they all dragged him to Kuneida’s place, amidst shrieks of “ROASTED PIG HOO HAA HAA!” and “YOU FRIKING IDIOT! OGA! YOU DUMBASS! YOU ASSHOLE! I’LL NEVER FORGIVE YOU FOR THIS!” and even “Just sprinkle some teriyaki sauce on the pigeons and nobody’ll care.” 

The pillar squad don’t hang around as much as when he used the contracting tissues, but Hecadoth and Agiel are becoming familiar faces. “Tactician” doesn’t get thrown out as much and Hecadoth has absently remarked how odd Furuichi’s reactions are when they call him by his first name (no garbage, lolicon, or pervert attached.) Furuichi dramatically remarks that it’s a pretty awesome feeling with a flick of his hair and a jutting of his hips, but he doesn’t really know what that feeling is called. Behemoth eventually informs him that he’s feeling what they call “respect” during a late night ramen run. 

Not all is perfect though.

Oga finds it funny, in a hypocritical, dead-baby joke, hindsight is 20/20, kind of way. Hilda describes Angels as the “holy ones,” “benevolent spirits,” “messengers of God.” It’s not something he spends a lot of time thinking about (like most things, really) but it comes up in a ding ding ding whenever Furuichi abuses his new-fangled powers for the “greater good,” such as altering the light and air around him and flaring his wings dramatically to terrify would be delinquents to repent their sins and subsequently relinquish all their lunch money. 

But both and Oga are reminded every so often that there is a price to pay, a constant strain, a role that he must fulfil. Being a creature of divine justice requires something more than just healing a little boy’s injured puppy, or granting a little bit of luck for the local pottery shop in the back streets, or breaking a few wrists so that Honoka will be able to safely walk home after soccer practice every Tuesday.

Sometimes, during sweet spring evenings or bone cold, wet winter afternoons, Furuichi will go missing, abruptly and without warning. Mrs Furuichi will frantically call Oga, because Furuichi never has his phone during times like these, and Oga will drop everything he’s doing to bring him home. Although he always complains about it afterwards and makes Furuchi buy him yeast buns or icy blocks the next day, he never recalls a single moment of hesitation whenever he hears Mr Furuichi’s shaking voice. Each time it happens it’s exactly like the last.

Oga has tried to get him to explain the sensation, but Furuichi stubbornly keeps his mouth shut and one time nearly knocked his head right off his shoulders when he got too persistent. So from then on, Oga just waits until Furuichi finally uncovers his face, and he always waits for Furuichi to speak first. That doesn’t mean his body doesn’t freeze for a few drawn out seconds when it’s a particularly bad moment, and it doesn’t mean Oga won’t hesitate to use those basic first aid skills Kunieda drilled into him from his day off, and it doesn’t mean he hasn’t considered the possibility of storming the pearly gates and just beating the shit out of anyone he can get his hands on.

It never gets easier. Furuichi has told him little, but he has this nasty habit of rambling hysterically when he gets trapped in the heat of it. It does have a few words from a couple of languages that he’s almost positive have been dead for quite some time, but for the most part he understands what it is that makes Furuichi retch and sweat uncontrollably and cry like nobody’s there to judge. 

It’s the slow death of a loved one and the frantic, insistent prayers, filled with layers of unfiltered emotion that dig into his skin like jagged glass. Sometimes he can feel the warmth bleeding out from Furuichi when a phantom bullet rips through his body and his ears will ring for hours afterwards from the explosive shells. Other times, he rocks back and forth erratically in time to the rise and ebb of code red sirens from war torn countries being forced to fight another round. And sometimes, sometimes… it hits a little too close to home for Furuichi when he can feel the sharp, deliberate strokes across his wrists, across his thighs. It hits a little too close to his heart, still twitching around the stitches holding the severed pieces together, when he gazes into Oga’s searching eyes and sees a reflection of a drooping body hanging from the ceiling and gently swinging, like willow branches in the soft breeze.

Oga doesn’t always know what exactly to do, or what he should say. But he follows the best example he can think of and he does what Furuichi has always done for him and makes sure he’s okay, for just a little while. He’ll haul him off the ground and he’ll trudge dirt roads through a whipping storm, carrying his limp body on his back with baby Beel sitting on his head, and he’ll make sure Honoka has calmed down and coaxes her into bed when they get back, and he’ll double check that Furuichi’s chest rises and falls and doesn’t ever stop.

The morning after has Furuichi slumped forward in bed like a zombie, hair sticking in all directions like a DBZ character, one hand rubbing his crusty, bleary eyes while the other scrolls through all the messages that have flooded his phone throughout the night. 

Oga knows that Nene has wondered how Furuichi does it, how he manages to push through times like that, and he knows that she and the rest of the Red Tails always make a little care package of hot chicken soup, tissues and fresh apples that they try to discretely leave in his locker before he arrives at school. The key word is ”try,” because at the end of the day, the soup thermos is always rinsed clean and sitting unassumingly on top of her desk before the last bell rings and she goes home. Even Kanzaki gets a little pissed now and then at how Furuichi doesn’t seem to be reacting to his situation with more annoyance, but Oga can see how Furuichi has changed and adapted to his new responsibilities so painfully well. Maybe it’s the fact that his smiles actually reach his eyes or that whenever he berates and throws a catastrophic shit when one of them does or says something particularly stupid that it’s always when there’s a serious potential for physical harm.

Nowadays, Furuichi will meet anyone’s eyes straight on. Nowadays, he’ll stand straight and keep his head tall. Nowadays, he walks with them, and never behind anymore.

Tonight is a buzzing summer night. All of them are gathered around a roaring, crackling, dancing bon fire, listening to the soft rush of the ocean water, clenching their toes in squeaky, cool sand. Tonight, the stars shine bright and Satome laughs in the distance as he traces the constellations for Tojo, Baby Beel and Futaba. Himekawa raises his arm in victory, accompanied by the chanting of his loyal pompadour army, just after a spectacular smash with the bat on the engorged watermelon.

Oga rests backwards on his hands and glances at Furuichi who’s currently crouched and muttering at an old stereo he hauled from his house. Yuka and Ryoko are providing “helpful” advice, poking and prodding and letting out shouts of glee whenever it crackles loudly until Furuichi screams at them to quit it and shouldn’t they be getting the goddamn fireworks ready?

Hilda’s words come drifting back. Angels are messengers of God, holy ones, attendant spirits, the benevolent ones. They protect and guide human beings. They are kindness, strength, healing, light, severity, seekers for truth and justice, bringing people together.

And despite all the hiccups, Oga can’t think of anyone more worthy of such a title.


End file.
